STREET JUSTICE

By C. Fong Hsiung

 

2:45 a.m.

The mobile phone buzzes.

Jason grabs a pillow and covers his ears. The buzzing continues. With a groan he gropes the bedside table. “Shaun’s going to pay for this,” he thinks. Aloud he says, “This had better be good, Shaun.”

He hears a hysterical cackle. Shaun says in a high-pitched voice, “Jay, it’s your brother. Please come here quick.”

“What did Tony do this time?”

“Please Jay, just come over. Tony…uh… he’s been stabbed.”

Jason swears as he grabs his trousers and t-shirt. A few minutes later, tires screeching and thoughts racing as fast as his car, he wonders what his brother and Shaun have been up to. More than once, he’d asked Tony to move back with him and to dump that scumbag roommate of his. But there was no reasoning with Tony.

The problem with Tony, Jason muses, is that he flaunts big brother’s tough-guy reputation like an annoying invitation to the gangs in the hood. More than once, Jason has bailed Tony out of trouble. He sighs as he parks his car, swings his feet out on the asphalt—still soft from the day’s heat—and enters the brownstone low-rise.

Jason holds his nose as he rides the decrepit elevator. The smell of stale urine and unnamed other odors assault his nostrils. When the door groans open, he gasps and gulps a breath of air—not much better; his lungs are on fire.

He pounds his fist on one of the doors. The third thump lands on air as Shaun flings it wide and stands in front of him with disheveled hair, shirt torn at the right shoulder, and dried blood smeared on his chest.

Shaun blubbers, “Jay, it’s that shit-face, Rick, wait till I get my hands on him. He’s a dead man.”

Jason shoves past Shaun kicking aside a pile of dirty clothes on the floor as he heads straight for the couch. He cringes at the sight of his brother lying unmoving, face swollen and bloody. Bloods seeps through makeshift bandages—strips from a t-shirt—around Tony’s chest and stomach. Jason touches Tony’s neck. No pulse here…wait, there’s a faint beat. “Shaun, call 911 right now. Tony has to go to the hospital.”

“The cops will be all over us if we take him in,” Shaun whines.

Jason grabs Shawn’s shirt and growls, “He’s going to die if he doesn’t get treatment.”

“Uh…I…the cops will ask all kinds of questions”

“Do you think I care? My brother needs medical attention right now.”

Tony groans. Jason kneels down beside his brother and gazes into the pain-glazed eyes. “Tony, hang in there. Don’t try to talk. We’ll get you to the hospital.”

“I…I’m so sorry, Jay,” Tony whispers.

Jason squeezes Tony’s cold and clammy hands. “Shh…everything will be fine.”

Tony’s fingers tense up and then slacken. He expels a deep sigh like air escaping a punctured tire. Jason quells an anguished sob. “No, Tony, no. Please hang on.” He shakes the limp and lifeless hands. “Damn you, stay with me.”

“Jay, the ambulance is on the way,” Shaun says as he pockets his phone.

“Too late, Tony’s gone.”

“This can’t be happening. He can’t die,” Shaun whimpers and crumples into a chair. He wipes his eyes and nose with the back of his wrist.

Rage sears through Jason. “Who did you say did this to Tony?”

“That fuck-face, Rick, and his cronies. They were taunting us. Tony and I, we didn’t want anything to do with them, we were walking home from the bar. You know that Doberman Rick has? He let him loose on us. It went for Tony first, but Tony had a knife on him and he drove it into the dog. I swear if he didn’t do that then the dog would have killed him.”

Jason grits his teeth and tenses his jaws.

Shaun continues, “When Rick saw that Tony had killed his dog, he became crazy. Him and his buddies surrounded us. There were just two of us to six of them. At some point I blacked out because my head hit a rock. When I came to, I saw Rick wiping a knife on Tony’s clothes, and then he ran. Tony was just lying there moaning. There was no way he could walk home, so I got us a cab.”

“You didn’t think to ask the cab to take Tony to the hospital?”  Jason glowers as Shaun sinks lower in the chair.

“The hospital will call the cops and then they’ll be sniffing all over the place. Rick and his gang will kill us if we went to the cops.”

“Tony’s dead. Do you think I care what the cops or Rick and his buddies do? Rick’s going to pay for this.”

Terror shines in Shaun’s eyes. “What’re you going to do, Jay?”

Jason formulates a vague plan in his head—he has no desire to discuss it with Shaun. “I don’t know yet. Let’s just say that I’m going to have a chat with Rick. When the paramedics arrive, you deal with them.”

“Let me come with you and help you do whatever you’re going to do. I feel responsible for this.”

“Yeah, you should feel bad, but you’re in no shape to deal with anything tonight.”

“Be careful, Rick is a cunning son-of-a-bitch.”

“Don’t worry about me. You take care of yourself.”

***

Like an alley cat Jason makes his way to Rick’s apartment. His sneakers make no sound on the pavement when he passes a sleeping vagrant. He arrives at his destination faster than he anticipated. He fingers the weapon in his pant pocket as he studies the building—an old five-storey low-rise with balconies stacked one over the other. Intruders weren’t a major concern when it was built many moons ago. A light is glowing in Rick’s second-floor apartment.

Jason’s gaze sweeps all around him. A car slows down at a stop sign about a hundred yards behind him, and then moves on. He grabs a window sill, climbs up and propels his body toward Rick’s balcony. As he hangs at the bottom of the balcony, he hoists himself up and then wraps his legs around the metal railing. Once his feet land on concrete, he unsheathes his dagger. He creeps to the side of the door, peering and listening. Other than Rick who seems to be lying on the couch dozing in front of the TV, Jason doesn’t see anyone else. He tests the screen door. It slides open.

Weapon in one hand hidden behind his back, Jason skulks toward his sleeping prey. He draws a deep breath and then raises his dagger arm. Rick’s eyes open wide. His mouth gapes, “What the fuck…”

Jason throws a punch on Rick’s face and follows it with a knee to the stomach. He pins Rick down with his free hand and a knee and then brandishes the dagger. “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” Jason growls.

Rick’s pupils dilate and he chokes, “Please don’t hurt me.”

“You should have thought of that when you killed my brother with a knife, and now I’m going to do the same to you,”

“I swear I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

Rick yells, “Help—”

Jason punches him again and covers Rick’s mouth with his hand. “You should have stayed away from Tony like I asked you to, you slimy coward. You pick on others only when you’ve got your posse with you. Where are they now?”

Rick mumbles something incoherent. His face contorts and his eyes dart wildly. Jason raises the dagger positioning it for the perfect kill. He has been visualizing this moment ever since he said goodbye to his brother. Now he will exact his revenge. He hesitates. Despite his tough-guy reputation, he has never killed another human being.

Rick heaves and pushes with what seems like superhuman strength. Jason loses his balance—only for a moment—and then he drives the sharp blade down with full force. He feels the cold hard steel penetrate warm soft tissue. Bile surges up toward his throat. “What am I doing?” he thinks as nausea almost overpowers him. He stops pushing the weapon.

Rick struggles to free his hands as his legs thrash and jerk. Jason releases his grip on his victim and he tries to stand up. A muffled sound reverberates in the room. Jason turns his head around in dazed dread. The stench of smoke and gunpowder wafts up toward him.

Rick starts to laugh hysterically, but the laughter dies as quickly as it started. Jason’s confusion turns to horror and disbelief as his gaze travels down. He sees a smoking gun in Rick’s lifeless hands. From his own stomach, blood drips down to his dagger seeping into Rick’s shirt. Blending the blood of the victim and the victor—victory now a bitter pill stuck in Jason’s throat.

Death does not discriminate.

Papa Is Not A Criminal

By C. Fong Hsiung

 

“Ooh…look at her. She’s beautiful like a fairy.” I angle closer to the comic book and caress the picture with my fingers.

Ai-Lei sticks her head in between the page and my face. “Let me see, let me see. Ooh…Mei-Lan, look at the long hair. I wish my mama would let me grow my hair like that.”

With a huff, I lean back against the wicker lounge chair. “You’re blocking my view.”

Ai-Lei jerks her head up. I give her a withering glance and then resume eyeballing my red and gold kimono-clad princess. “When I grow up, I’m going to look like her.”

Ai-Lei gazes at me with rapturous eyes. “Do you want to be a fairy when you grow up?”

“Don’t be silly. You can’t become a fairy, you have to be born one…don’t you?”

“Umm…maybe, I dunno. I want to look like that too when I grow up.” Ai-Lei curls deep into her wicker chair and a dreamy glaze clouds her eyes.

“Mei-Lan, where are you? It’s bath time.” Mama’s shrill call jolts me upright.

“I’m coming, Ma,” I yell back, wishing Mama would stop treating me like a baby—a six-year-old baby. I sigh and give up chasing the princess in my head. I can almost feel her sash, fluttering gossamer wings, slipping through my fingers like sand. Uncurling my legs, I stretch my arms, rise up and stand at the edge of the balcony. My hands grasp the cold cement railing where, through the gaps, I can see a field of wooden planks across from the dusty path below. My seven-year-old brother is running with a group of boys on the planks while another boy gives chase. “Why can’t We-Shin take his bath first?” I think as resentment wells up in my chest and I watch We-Shin now stop to parry and thrust his hand in imaginary swordplay. He thinks he’s the hero slaying a fiery dragon. Sometimes in his pretend-world he cuts me down with blood-curdling whoops, making me believe his sword has truly felled me.

Over the boys’ boisterous play, I hear the silvery tinkle of cowbells, but I can’t see the cows. Dusk comes early in December. The milkman is heading home, and the calf must be trotting close to its mother, nosing into her milk-heavy bosom, hoping to slake its thirst. It seems to understand already that human’s needs come before its own. The poor thing eats last.

“Mei-Lan, come here this minute or you’re in trouble,” Mama hollers somewhere downstairs.

“Coming, Ma,” I yell and cast another lingering glance at the field that looks like a giant checkered carpet laid on the ground. The raw hides that had been stretched out to dry there were removed several hours ago. Now it is a playground and communal gathering place for storytelling. My kung-kung, grandpa, promised a new story for this evening. He said that he would tell us about his adventures during his travels from China to India where we now live in Calcutta in the leather-tanning community of Tangra. Kung-Kung left China on a boat about forty years ago during the early twenties.

With pleading eyes, Ai-Lei extends an arm toward me. “Can I borrow your book while you take your bath?”

I clutch my comic book to my chest. Mama subscribes to a Hakka merchant who in turn has the books shipped to him from Hong Kong. “Promise you won’t fold or tear it like you did the last one I lent you.”

“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Reluctantly I hand the book to Ai-Lei and make my way to the stairs. As I put one foot on the first step, the last couple of tanning machines stop their incessant thrumming, and all is quiet. I continue half-way down to the landing and deep voices float up. Somewhere, mongrel dogs yelp—Mama says there aren’t any pure breeds here in Tangra. Probably fighting over a piece of bone.

I reach the ground floor and see a group of men with serious faces, gathered at the tannery’s front door.

“I received a letter today from Ah-Ping, my brother in Assam,” Uncle Chin-Li says from his rattan stool.

Mr. Wu glances up from one of the concrete benches flanking the entrance. His Adam’s apple wobbles in the wrinkled neck, and he drawls in his boring way, “Chin-Li, what is the latest news there? How many more Chinese families have been rounded up by the police?”

Oh, oh…not more war talk. It’s too scary. I should head to the bathroom right now before I get into trouble. Still, even though adult-talks sometimes make my heart race, I can’t help listening.

Then, We-Shin’s howling reaches my ears. “Ooh…my eye…my eye.”

It looks like his over-zealous fencing partner has jabbed my brother’s eye. In a flash, Mama dashes past me. Her ears are ultra-sensitive to our distress calls. Good, she’s forgotten about my bath.

Uncle Chin-Li continues as if We-Shin’s cries are nothing more than background noise. “Two more families were arrested. My brother doesn’t know where they’ve been taken to. Rumor has it that these people aren’t coming home any time soon.”

Mr. Wu says, “I heard that the Chinese are being interned in Rajasthan.”

“Why Rajasthan?” Mr. Chiu asks beside him, his voice rising higher.

“There’s a concentration camp in Deoli. The police are arresting Chinese people on trumped-up charges of espionage.”

“Bloody government,” Mr. Wong growls from the other bench. “India’s Border War with China is over, but still they arrest whole families.”

I climb up to Uncle Chin-Li’s lap and wiggle my bum until I’m comfortable. He wraps his arms around me and says, “Ah-Ping wrote that it’s only a matter of time before he and his family will be taken away too. He can’t leave as they’re being watched.”

“So, what about us? Are they going to arrest us too?” Mr. Chiu squeaks, one foot nervously bouncing up and down on his toes while his head nods back and forth.

Mr. Wu clears his throat. His wrinkled face looks grave. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us, but I do know that no Chinese is safe right now.”

“But that’s so unfair. We haven’t done anything. There’s no spy among us.” Mr. Chiu whines.

“Ah-Ping says that the police come and arrest Chinese people with no warning. They won’t let you take anything you can’t carry yourself. The women there are sewing bags just like we are doing here, and stuffing whatever they can into these bags.”

“Yes, it’s the wise thing to do. We all have to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice,” Mr. Wu says.

A queasy sensation seems to churn in my chest and stomach. I look up at Uncle Chin-Li. “Aren’t the police supposed to arrest only bad people?”

“Mei-Lan, why aren’t you out there playing with your brother? You shouldn’t be listening to adults talk,” Uncle Chin-Li musses my hair.

“But Uncle Chin-Li, are we going to jail?”

“Of course not, you silly girl. Now run along and play catch with your brother.”

I slide down from my uncle’s knees just as Mama stops at the door, one hand clutching We-Shin’s upper arm. Mama frowns at me. “Mei-Lan, I’m giving your brother a bath first. You stay right here, and I’ll come back for you.”

Another reprieve from my bath.

I slip back upstairs to the balcony overhanging the front entrance. Ai-Lei has left, and I can make out the outlines of the two wicker loungers’ high backs. I climb up to one of them and watch the occasional lights twinkling in the distance as a car or a scooter drives by on the road, beyond the wooden planks field. Sounds of conversation hum below where Uncle Chin-Li and the other men continue to debate the Chinese people’s fate in India. I wonder what this place, Deoli in Rajasthan is like. The adults mentioned concentration camp. I’m not sure what that means. I wish I hadn’t given my comic book to Ai-Lei. But it’s too dark to see now, so forget the book.

Suddenly I realize that an unusual quiet has settled over the place. I scramble down from my chair and look down through the gaps. A dark and boxy vehicle parks below. The doors open and four men step outside. They disappear underneath the balcony, and I hear someone speak in Hindi. I can’t make out the words.

With my heart somersaulting up to my mouth, I creep downstairs. At the bottom of the steps, I see a terrifying sight. Four men underneath the naked yellow lightbulb, each tapping his palm with a baton. Four policemen in khaki uniform. Uncle Chin-Li and the other men seem nervous. Mr. Wu’s jaws grind and his Adam’s apple wobbles. Shadowy figures emerge outside and form a silent semi-circle beyond the entrance.

One of the policemen now raps the ground with his baton as he clears his throat and barks, “Looking for Mr. Shau-Min Chen. Shau-Min Chen?”

Horror fills every inch of my body. What do they want with Papa?

“Why are you looking for him?” I turn my head toward the tannery when I hear Mama’s quivering voice.

Behind her, scrubbed and fresh-faced, We-Shin gazes at the policemen with curious eyes.

“Where is Mr. Shau-Min Chen? We’re here to take him in,” the leader says with an imperious stare. I can feel the almost palpable disdain oozing from his body.

“He’s not here right now,” Mama says with a hint of defiance.

“It’s okay, Lillian, I’m Shau-Min Chen,” a quiet assertive voice says behind Mama.

Papa walks upright past Mama and stands in front of her like a shield. The officer takes a few steps forward and faces my papa at eye level.

“What am I being charged with?” Papa asks quietly.

“You are under arrest for spying against our country for the Chinese government.” The officer’s gaze wavers.

From my position, I can see Papa’s rigid spine and squared shoulders. He says, “How does a working man like me, born and raised here in Calcutta, with no ties to anyone in the Chinese government become a spy?”

“We have it on good authority recorded on this piece of paper here that you were speaking out against India.” The officer waves a piece of flimsy paper. “There’s a Chinese flag raised on your roof. What other proof do you need?”

“Sir, may I point out that there is an Indian flag right next to the Chinese flag up there? What anti-India words have I spoken? My crime, if you want to call it one, is speaking out against the War. I don’t believe that any war is necessary.”

The officer, his chin jutting forward, isn’t in a mood to debate the merits of the War with Papa. He motions his lackeys to take Papa into custody. “Enough of this talk. You’re coming with us.”

Papa raises his hands to halt them, “Since you’re determined to arrest me for something I haven’t done, please tell me where you’re taking me.”

“You’ll be interned at Deoli in Rajasthan.”

“That’s a long way from Calcutta.” For the first time Papa sounds apprehensive. “Can I have a few minutes to say goodbye to my family and to collect my things, please?”

“Make it quick.” The officer snaps his fingers.

“Wait,” Uncle Chin-Li says with a stoic expression, “please arrest me instead of my brother-in-law. He has a wife and three small children. I’m single and I can take his place.”

The officer’s eyebrows quirk upward like wings in flight. A fleeting disconcerted shadow flickers in his eyes before he says, “I can take you in too if you want, but my orders are to arrest Shau-Min Chen only.”

Papa turns to Uncle Chin-Li and grips his shoulders. “Thank you. That’s foolish and brave. I need you to stay and take good care of your sister and the children when I’m gone.”

My uncle’s mouth trembles and he clenches his jaws. “I’ll be here when you return.”

Papa’s arm circles Mama’s waist and they walk together to our room. A few minutes later the door re-opens. In her arms, Mama holds my little brother, We-Lim still rubbing sleep from his eyes. Papa is carrying two dark blue cotton bags that I had seen Mama fill with clothes and utensils only a few days ago. I had wondered back then why Mama was sewing so many bags. They stop a few paces from the officer.

Suddenly Mama’s wail pierces the charged air. Some of the women among the onlookers wipe their cheeks with their sleeves, sniffing and blowing their nose unabashedly. My hands clutch the banister at the bottom of the stairs. Nobody seems to notice me in the shadows as I watch the entire drama unfolding in front of me. Papa is not a criminal. The police are supposed to arrest thieves and murderers. This is a mistake. They must let Papa go.

Papa drops the bags and embraces Mama and my baby brother. He bends his head and whispers something to her. She becomes quiet, but her shoulders continue to shake as he rubs her back. Papa looks up and sees me. “Come here, Mei-Lan.” He beckons me with his fingers while his other hand reaches for We-Shin who is standing by the side with clenched fists.

I put a tentative foot forward. Papa says encouragingly, “Come here, my princess.”

The short distance gapes like a mile. I want to run and hug my papa, but my legs won’t move. Papa takes a couple of steps and lifts me into his arms. He holds me so tight I feel like my breath would burst through my lungs. Then he puts me down and my legs go wobbly like jelly. I’m glad his hand is gripping my shoulder, or I would surely collapse. Papa goes down on his knees and gathers We-Shin and me. I will never forget how sad he looks as he says, “Papa has to go away. Your mama is going to need all your help now. Can I count on you to be her helpers?”

We-Shin nods, his tears shining in the stark, yellow light. I knuckle my eyes, not quite understanding why Papa has to go. The terrifying sensations tell me this is real, that I will not see Papa for a long time.

Mama’s shoulders shudder violently and she releases an animal-like howl that I can’t bear to hear. Papa straightens up and holds Mama close to him. “Please don’t cry, Lillian. You must stay strong for our kids. I’ll be back soon, just wait and see. The government will come to their senses and realize this is not right,”

His sad gaze sweeps over us again as he turns. “I’m ready to go, Officer.”

I watch Papa through blurry eyes, my tears falling fast and furious. He inclines his head toward us one last time. The expression on his face is seared into my brain. Then he steps forward toward captivity with his head held up high. My papa is not a not a criminal.

My heart weighs like a brick, straining so hard against my rib cage that I think it will break off and shatter into pieces. I wish I could turn the clock back. I wish I’d listened to Mama when she called me to go for my bath. Maybe Papa would not have to go away if I’d done what Mama wanted me to do. I turn and bury my face in Mama’s shirt as I fling my arms around her waist. I hear the car door close with a thud, and I lift my head to look for Papa.

He is gone, swallowed inside by the black van. I glance up at the officer as he lifts his feet off the ground. For a brief moment our eyes lock. I hold his gaze without flinching, willing from the bottom of my soul that he would change his mind. He blinks and closes the door.

With a roar, the engine comes to life. The big black box jolts back and forth a few times. Then its headlights turn away from us. Only the tail lights are now visible. Soon, they twinkle and vanish around the corner. I feel hollow with an emptiness I cannot touch or soothe. With We-Lim still clinging to her, Mama gathers We-Shin and me. She bows her head and sobs. I wish I can wipe her tears away, but I’m too busy wiping my own.

Publish Your Short Story

workstation-336369_640 (1)Do you want to publish a story on the web? Wondering if you’ve got what it takes to tell a story?

My goal is to assist people who are dabbling with words for the first time. Perhaps I can plant a seed in your head, and then help you find your voice for at least, one short story. After that you can decide whether you want to continue to write or not. Experience tells me that once you see your story posted on-line, you’ll get hooked. Most of the writers on my site have never written seriously before I invited them to try.

So how do you get started? Pick a writing prompt (click here) on my site to fire up your imagination. Write a story between 300 – 500 words long. Embed the selected prompt anywhere in your narrative. You may change the tense, but you cannot change anything else in the sentence. When you’re ready, copy and paste the entire text into the message part of the “Contact Me” page, and send it to me. I will edit your work and then return it to you. If you accept my changes, then I will post your story on my site, no strings attached. It may take a few weeks to make it to my blog. I’ll email you when it’s posted.

Why do I do this? Because until recently I was a new writer myself. Because it’s hugely gratifying when I can bring a complete novice along the writing journey and then see them grow as a writer. I want to encourage you to go even further. Stoke the fire in your author belly by downloading my resource-packed free e-book. As a bonus you’ll also get an Excel template to track the timelines of your characters and events for when you’re ready to write a novel.

So what are you waiting for? Start writing now. Claim your free e-book and Excel workbook from the sidebar.

Short “Shorts” – No Longer Here

This week we have a brand new writer. Her debut short story will touch you and evoke raw emotions that you can’t help, but feel. The writing prompt used was: She saw two people in the picture where there should have been three.

No Longer Here

by

Marina Albert

Beach_No Longer Here

“What’s happened to Mike?” Edel asked as her husband George hung up the phone.

”Mike’s missing. He went out on a boat with his friends and he may have drowned,” George said, his expression dark and gloomy.

The caller was a friend. Mike was George’s nephew, a smart, handsome and intelligent young man who just married a year ago. So Edel and George rushed to the cottage near the lake where Mike and his wife had spent the long weekend together with their friends.

A tragic scene greeted them. Many friends and relatives including Mike’s parents gathered at the cottage, praying for Mike to come back. Where was he? Surely a strong swimmer and a healthy young man like him wouldn’t drown?

Two long days of searching, and then the police found Mike. Drowned…lifeless.

Edel and George missed Mike. They missed his jokes and sense of humor at the family gatherings. A few weeks later, Edel visited Mike’s mother, Maria, who looked lonely and bereft at the loss of her only son at the age of thirty-three. She cried as she spoke about Mike.

Maria said that she knew something was wrong that Sunday morning when she stood at the bottom of the steps and her eyes rested on the family portrait hung above the clock. She saw two people in the picture where there should have been three. For a moment she was sure Mike was missing.

Then the phone rang…the call that told her Mike was gone. Was that God’s way of letting her know what was about to happen?

Maria remembered that on the day before the trip he came to borrow the cooler. His usually bright face was somber as he gave her advice about her diet. He had asked, “Where is Dad?” She told him that he was at the gym.

Mike went to the gym—somewhat unusual—just to see his dad, and then brought him home, after which he took off. That last glance and his goodbye still lingered in her mind. Did Mike have any inkling that it would be the final time he saw his parents?

The other day while driving to work Maria heard Mike’s voice. ‘MUMMY!” he called out. That was when she saw the car in front of her. She hit the brake just in time. She had dozed off briefly; the stress of losing Mike had taken a toll on her sleep.  If not for that voice she would have got into an accident.

When Edel walked out of her cousin’s house she felt sad, but she took comfort in her cousin’s stories. You see, although Mike was gone from this world, he still watched over them from heaven.

Suddenly Alone – A Short “Shorts”

Suddenly Alone

Contributed by Guest Writer: Diane Cormier

Writing Prompt:  I walk past this hole in the wall, every instinct telling me to keep going.

man-415634_640Tommy’s gone.

I hate when people say, “He may be gone but he’s in a better place.” How can being dead be better? We were so happy planning our life and getting our new house ready for the big family we planned to have. The police said I can now go back into our house as they have finished their investigations. I hesitate. My chest tightens—my breath squeezes out in tight spurts.

“Okay, calm down,” I think. “Nothing can hurt you.”

Something tugs my hand. I look down and see Digby, my beautiful German Shepherd, gazing up and pulling me towards the door. The poor dog probably thinks Tommy is waiting on the other side with doggie treats hidden behind his back. They enjoyed playing this game. They never got tired of it.

Tears come to my eyes. Oh, why did I go visit my sister? The trip achieved nothing–we are not any closer for it. Now the only person who I need and want in my life is gone. That fateful call has changed everything. Once again I am alone.

“Digby, settle down. Let me find the key.”

Wait, why is the door unlocked? Maybe the police forgot to lock up when they finished their investigation. I bend down to remove Digby’s leash, and he covers me with doggie kisses. As I wipe my face Digby takes off. I want to run after him but realize that he’s just looking for his best friend.

I stand up and reluctantly move towards the living room. It is too quiet, but nothing is out of place. The sun shines upon the usual spots, yet my heart beats a bit too fast as my eyes adjust to the brightness. Something doesn’t feel quite right. I walk past this hole in the wall, every instinct telling me to keep going. I hesitate—that hole wasn’t there before. Goose bumps travel up and down my arms. I have a really bad feeling about this, but I need to take a closer look.

Suddenly Digby blocks my way. He jumps up and nearly knocks me down. “It’s okay, boy. I just need to take a closer look.”

Why can I not move? Some unseen force holds me back. I shake off the feeling and move closer to the hole. Should I get a flashlight?

All of a sudden I feel someone behind me. I hold my breath and turn slowly. “Tommy! My story is about to get to an important part.”

Tommy grabs my waist and kisses me. “Did you kill me off in your story?”

“Well, you did make me mad this morning, so yes, I killed your character.”

He laughs and says, “I gotta get back to work.”

“Tommy, don’t forget to fix that hole in the wall”

 

Forgetful

A Short Story by

Diane Cormier

Writing Prompt: She fumbled in her purse but came up short.

brandy-402572_640A red heart drawn into the calendar on Saturday…what did it mean? “What did I forget now? Hmm…oh no, today is Saturday. It’s our 40th wedding anniversary.” She cannot believe that once again she forgot to book the reservation that Jason had asked her to make.

She could picture Jason ranting about how she only had one thing to do, and yet she couldn’t even get that right. Most women make a big deal reminding their husbands about this major event; this one was amazed that hers still loved her after all these years of forgetting.

Now she racked her brain, but she just couldn’t remember where she had placed the note that Jason wrote the restaurant’s name on. She tapped her chin. Where was the one place she put everything in besides the kitchen sink?

She ran up to her room and reached for the closet shelf. Eagerly she fumbled in her purse but came up short. Impossible! She always placed all of Jason’s notes—and there were many—inside the little case, but even that was missing. She could hear Jason in her head, “Honey, how could you lose the one thing I had specially made to attach to that suitcase you call a purse?”

Jason’s home.

She rushed to the mirror and looked at herself—nothing that some make-up and a sexy outfit couldn’t fix while she poured him his favorite drink. With the finishing touches to her face done, she headed downstairs. It was too quiet. She wondered what her husband was up to.

“Jason.” No reply. Funny…she was sure she heard the front door open and close. Maybe he was in the shed tinkering with his new tools. That should give her more time to fix a snack, have his drink ready, and search again for the missing case.

BOOM…noise from the backyard.

Heart pounding she raced to the back door. “Jason,” she called and opened the door, oblivious to possible dangers on the other side. She stopped suddenly as many faces smiled at her and yelled, “SURPRISE!”

With a hand on her heart she looked through the crowd and spotted Jason. He held the missing case up high. Furious, she marched over to him and stuck out her hand. He gently put the case in her palm, leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Honey, I had a feeling you would forget.”

He then grabbed her around the waist. As she leaned into his embrace she whispered, “I can’t promise I won’t forget again, but oh, you are going to pay for this one.”

Jason laughed. She tried to keep a stern face, but he hugged her even tighter. “After 40 years I kinda know what my punishment might be.”

She grinned. “Honey, I feel a headache coming on.”

The End

Short Shorts: Writing Prompt 2

file0001812800826

“Run,” I screamed as the cow charged towards us. My brain told me to run, but my voice died in my throat. My feet felt like lead as I stood in the path of the massive animal, its curved, menacing horns pointed at me.

Someone pushed me just as the dirty brown body barreled past. Adele, my seven-year-old cousin, fell on top of me. She saved my butt yet again. Our little limbs flailed as we struggled to get up.

“Get off me, you’re hurting me,” I said and shoved her to the side.

She stood up, tossed her head back and released a loud cackle. She rocked back and forth, eyes sparkling with glee. Her full-bellied laugh implied, “I know how to take care of you better than you can.”

“What’s so funny?” I asked churlishly while I hauled myself up. I patted down my dark blue, mud-stained skirt. Mom’s not going to be happy about my dirty uniform.

Adele pointed at the cow running away from us. The sight made me burst into tears, and I sat down on the unpaved road. Dangling around the cow’s neck like an over-sized necklace was my colorful, single-strap, cotton schoolbag that held my grade two school supplies. The square-shaped floral satchel hung like a pendant swaying side to side.

From the corner of my eyes I saw a figure dash past me. Dhoti hitched above his knees, one dark-skinned hand waved as if the motions could stop the running cow in its track. He caught up with the cow, patted its back, whispered in its ear, and deftly removed my schoolbag.

I recognized the local electrician and handy-man as he approached me. When he held out my bag, he said, “Next time stop clowning around when you’re walking on the street.”

I gulped, nodded, and wiped my tears on my shirt-sleeved arm.

Adele reached for my hand and pulled me up. “Let’s go home,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said in a small voice. I’ll learn to take better care of myself in the future.

 

Image downloaded from Morguefile.com

Image URI: http://mrg.bz/U6TdDB
JPEG URI: http://mrg.bz/wN4OPK

Short Shorts Number 1

Writing Prompt: “She knocked down a glass spilling the contents over his cellphone.”

SOUL MATES

by C.Fong Hsiung

Soul Mates

Soul Mates

He tapped restless fingers on the glass table. He wondered why, earlier that day, Tracy had said, “I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. Let’s meet tonight.”

With a sense of foreboding he watched Chelsea eat her dinner. Her golden mane gleamed as the evening sun kissed the soft waves. His heart twisted at the thought of giving her up. He had a feeling Tracy would demand that from him when they met that night.

He sighed. Chelsea continued eating oblivious to the turmoil raging in his head. Mentally he braced himself for the meeting with Tracy. He rehearsed what he’d say to her. “Chelsea and I have a special bond that cannot be broken, but I promise it won’t come between you and me.”

That sounded lame. He tried again. “You and I are soul mates. Nothing can come between us, not even Chelsea.”

The phone rang. Something swished past him. With a crash, she knocked down a glass spilling the contents over his cellphone. Quick as lightning, his hand shot across the table and lifted it from the puddle. “Chelsea, look what you’ve done.”

The ringing ceased. As he strode across the kitchen floor for the paper towel, he said, “You need to watch where you’re going. My phone’s probably ruined.”

He wiped the face plate until it shone, and then he tapped an icon. The phone dinged. He released a low whistle. “Whew, close call.” He flipped through the missed calls’ list and groaned. That was Tracy.

Chelsea whimpered. He looked into the soulful eyes that followed him. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. Come here, give me a hug.”

Tail wagging, she bounded towards him. “The hell with Tracy,” he thought as Chelsea licked his face. “If she thinks I’m giving up my dog for her, she’s in for a shock.”

Sharing is Good

ShareYourStoryDo you think you have some latent desire to be a writer? Would you like to explore your inner author? Let me help you stoke the embers.

Here’s the deal:

I will provide you with a writing-prompt—one sentence—every week to get you started. You embed the sentence anywhere in your 300 to 500 word narrative. If you feel like sharing your work, I’ll publish it on the “Short Stories” section of my website. Pretty cool, huh? I reserve the right to edit your work before I post it. You keep the rights to your story always.

Writing Tips:

When you write your “shorts”, you should have a character, conflict and resolution. Use dialogues as much as possible to drive your fiction.

Ready to Share?

Send me your story via the “Contact Me” tab on my website. Enter the writing prompt in the subject line. Then paste your story in the message box.

This Week’s Prompt:

She knocked down a glass spilling the contents over his cellphone.

And Finally:

Have some fun and release your creative juices. Go ahead and share this with anyone who has a hidden writer inside them.

That’s it!

 

Picture attribution:

sw_PenOnManuscript_ncp9648.jpgBy jpp
Image URI: http://mrg.bz/IqvX3o
JPEG URI: http://mrg.bz/g4ANNA

30-Day Book Marketing Challenge: What an Experience

A Free Course, Reblog-hop-150x150ally

Is anything really free these days? The only thing I can think of is the air that we breathe. But wait, let me tell you about D’vorah Lansky’s 30-Day Book Marketing Challenge. Not only was it free, it DELIVERED…day after day during the thirty days. And the best part of it all…you don’t need to spend a cent if you don’t want to and still get the full benefit of the course. Did I get your attention yet?

Converting a Skeptic

I started out as a skeptic. How much can I really learn from a free course? You heard the saying before: “You get what you pay for.” Well, not this time. D’vorah packed so much content into the 30-Day Challenge that I could barely keep up. I stayed up late at night listening to the webinars and constantly reading the great variety of materials provided. The posts teased and pushed my brain to its limit. How do I get the best out of all these marketing tips? So many to choose from, and I still have a day job to do.

My Ah-ha Moment

On Day 18 of the Challenge, I listened to Kristen Eckstein speak about serializing books on Kindle. I knew right there and then that I’d found a strategy that would suit me perfectly. My fiction, Picture Bride, will be published by a traditional publisher during fall 2014. I don’t have a book out yet, but I have many short stories that I’m still editing. Why not release some of these stories as a series on Kindle? And for my free giveaway for anyone signing up on my website, I started to write an ebook called How to Stir the Writing Fire in Your Belly.

I was on fire. I signed up for Kristen’s Kindle in 30 Challenge for the discounted rate of $97. As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, you don’t have to pay for anything if you don’t want to. I’ve just started this course and hoping to self-publish my first ebook soon.

About My Novel

Picture Bride is about a young Hakka Chinese girl from India who marries a cold and aloof stranger in Canada. Bound by tradition and culture, she stays in the marriage despite his uncaring ways and even after she discovers his secret. Then when she is forced to flee, she is spurned by her father who cares only about his honor and reputation.

If you enjoyed this post please share the love and tell someone.

 

Monster in the Closet

Monster

Thump! Bonk! Bam! What’s that noise? Six-year-old Alex jolts upright on his bed as his heart bounces and pounds against his rib cage. He looks around the room. The little nightlight by his bedside table casts dark shadows. Creak, creak. His body turns rigid as his eyes fix on the closet door. Another creak…the door moves.

Alex is afraid of nothing, nothing that is, except his imagination and the dark. The blackness inside the space that holds his clothes and toys petrifies him every night. Certain that creepy crawlies and monsters will jump out, he insists that Mum always shut the closet door after she tucks him into his bed.

Although his lungs want to burst, he holds his breath not daring to make a sound. Nightmare of nightmares…an object darts across the carpeted floor. But wait, it looks like one of his GI Joe action figures, except bigger. The creature stops beside his bed. His initial terror turns to curiosity as he watches the strange miniature human-like form. It jumps up and down reaching to grab the comforter drooping over the bedside.

Alex reaches down and scoops it up just as it is about to leap again for the dangling fabric. Surprisingly, it does not resist. His eyes widen as he inspects the figure squirming in his palm. His own face—much smaller and on top of a frame no longer than his lower arm—stares back at him.

Alex whispers, “What are you?”

“I am Xela. I’m a Minusian.” The little fellow responds in a squeaky voice.

“What are you doing here?”

“I guard against monsters in your closet,” the voice drops an octave.

Alex’s heart beats a little faster. “Are there any in mine?”

“Not as long as I’m there,” Xela says with an impatient sigh.

Alex releases a long breath. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.”

Just then he hears a rat-a-tat-tat and then Mum breezes in. “Who are you talking to?”

He quickly puts Xela down. “Uh, I woke up because I thought I heard a noise.”

She strides the short distance to his bedside and tucks the covers around him. As she plants a kiss on his forehead, she glances at the Minusian lying still beside Alex. She picks up Xela, turns him one way and then the other. “Where did you get this?”

“Grandpa Don gave it to me.”

“Hmm…he’s a cute one. He looks like you.” She drops Xela on the bed, laughs and leaves.

Xela springs up. “Whew, that was close. Promise me you won’t tell anyone about me. I must go now. If you want to see me again, leave your closet door slightly open and say my name three times, after the lights are out.”

“Will you come again? Oh, that would be awesome.”

The next evening, as Alex prepares for bed, Mom asks, “Which book shall we read tonight?”

“Can we skip the reading? I’m not in the mood.”

“Of course, Sweetie. Are you alright?” She lays a hand on his forehead.

“I’m fine. I just want to go to sleep.”

She turns to leave, but her gaze rests on the closet door left slightly ajar. She reaches to close it.

Quickly Alex says, “Don’t do that, please. I don’t mind it.”

She looks at him strangely. “Are you sure?”

“Really,” he says with a vigorous nod.

“Okay then, goodnight.” Mom’s lips graze his cheek.

Alone in his room, Alex’s bravado evaporates as he steals a glance at the gaping blackness. Too late for regrets. He sits up and squeezes his eyes shut dispelling the horrid images popping into his head. He whispers, “I can do this. Xela, Xela, Xela.” He waits.

“Peek-a-boo.”

Alex opens one eye, and then the other. His mouth curves into a wide grin at the sight of Xela standing on his bed. He has somehow managed to hoist himself up. Alex’s head buzzes with questions for the Minusian. “Xela, why do you look like me?”

“That’s because there is a Minusian for every kid in this world.”

“Can you come out to play with me in the morning?”

“You can’t see us during the daytime because we sleep in Minusian Land. Every night, we go to all the children’s closets to keep out the bogeyman.”

“How can you do that? Aren’t the monsters a lot bigger than you?”

“We may be small, but we have magic powers that turn them to dust.” Xela puffs his chest and looks bigger than before.

Alex nods with understanding. He asks in awe, “Is that why there’s dust in my closet sometimes?”

“Yes,” Xela replies. “That’s how you know we’ve battled the bad guys.”

A cold draft wafts through the room. Alex shivers. Turning toward the source of the chilly air, he sees smoke-like, dark fluff billowing out of the closet. It swirls and curls, growing bigger and taller, until it turns into the shape of an ogre. Alex shrieks. Xela stands and inhales long and deep with a wheezing noise. He points both index fingers at the hideous creature and then blows out. “Skitter scatter, I command you to leave,” Xela bellows. The booming voice echoes in Alex’s ears.

The sinister cloud writhes as if in pain, creeps underneath the door, and then recedes behind it.

Shaken, Alex asks, “Did you kill it?”

“No, but it won’t bother you anymore. Smokey is a clever monster though, so I must go back and stay on guard.”

Xela slides down the bed and disappears. Not a moment too soon. Mom walks into the room and flicks the light switch.

“What was that sound?”

Alex squints as the bright light stabs his eyes. “Ugh…nothing, I didn’t hear anything.”

He smiles mysteriously and slides deep inside the covers.

A Midnight Feast to Remember

This is a short story I wrote about school girls in a boarding school, who broke the rules to have a midnight feast, and got more than they bargained for. I hope you enjoy reading it.


“Do you remember the story about the ghost in the toilets?” Pushpa asked as she bit into a spicy samosa, a deep-fried Indian snack.


I muffled a nervous laugh and glanced around the cramped quarters of the laundry closet where our midnight feast was in progress. Shadows danced around the three of us. “Are you scared? I don’t believe in that crap.”


Pushpa’s eyes glowed bright over the flashlight. “I do. Jasmin told me that her older sister saw a white figure disappear into one of these toilets many years ago before we became boarders here. She waited for the person to come out, but no one ever did.”


“Stop it, you two. You’re scaring me.” Anjali huddled closer to Pushpa and me as she scooped a handful of munchies.


“So why has no one seen any ghosts while we’ve been here?” I asked. We had been students at St. Mary’s School for the past seven years since we were in Kindergarten. 


Pushpa tapped her chin. “You know places like this are always haunted. Our school has been around since the British built it in the early 1900’s. Think about how many people have lived and died here.”


“So do you think the ghosts are English or Indian?” I chuckled.


“Could be Chinese too. You’re not the first Chinese to study in this school.” Pushpa punched my arm playfully.


A cool draught blew into the laundry closet through the mesh door, beyond which a window opened into the starlit sky where the full harvest moon hung low. I shivered.


“Shhh, I think I hear a rustling sound,” Anjali’s finger crossed over her lips.


We held our breaths and listened. Someone coughed. A moan followed. Normal sounds for a dorm full of sleeping schoolgirls.


“Must be your active imagination,” I whispered as I spooned a milk curd ball, rasgulla, into my mouth.


Anjali nudged me. I shoved her hand aside. “Stop that. You’re too squeamish for these midnight feasts.”


“Uh, Jackie…” Pushpa applied pressure on my arm causing me to look up.


“Stop…oh, Sister Yvette!” I hid my hands behind my back and clamped my mouth.


Sister Yvette’s white silhouette, framed against the moonlight, sent a tingle along my spine. Caught red-handed with our illicit grub bought with a day-student’s assistance—school policy prohibited outside food—we cowered and inched closer to one another.


“Pack up your stuff and go back to bed. Tomorrow morning you will report to Mother Superior at 8 o’clock.” Sister Yvette’s voice sounded hollow. I almost expected to hear an echo.


Without a word, we picked up the remnants of our feast—at least most of the food was already in our stomachs. As we walked by Sister Yvette, she held out her hands. One by one we gave up our precious goodies to her.


******************************

At eight o’clock sharp, I picked up the dreaded brass bell outside Mother Superior’s office. The wooden handle felt uncomfortable and hard in one hand. The other held the ringer inside the surrounding metal. I did not want the ringer and metal to collide before we were ready. Mother Superior could only be summoned with one chime. Any more would bring the wrong nun to the door. We didn’t need any more trouble than we had already.


“Here, do you want to do the honours?” I offered the bell to Pushpa. My palms felt sweaty.


“No way, you do it. You’re the brave one. If I make a mistake, I’ll get into trouble.” Pushpa knew when to dodge a sticky situation.


“You’re such a scaredy cat,” Anjali said.


“Then why don’t you do it?” Pushpa’s thick eyebrows arched.


“I would, but the last time I rang for Mother Superior, I accidentally made two dings and Sister Rosalind came out instead. She gave me two demerit points for my mistake.” 


“Alright, I’ll do it.” I sighed, shrugged and then inhaled deeply while I steadied my grasp. With a flick of my wrist, the ringer struck metal. The high pitched chime resonated from Mother Superior’s opaque glass door to the other end of the corridor, where two ponytailed heads peeked out of a classroom door. Although I could not see their expressions, I was certain they wondered about our plight.


While we waited for Mother Superior, I shifted my weight from one foot to another. I sighed at the memory of the remaining goodies that we gave up to Sister Yvette. Too bad she had lived up to her nickname, Sister Killjoy. If there was one thing she could be counted on, it was her uncanny knack for catching her charges during our most compromising moments.


The door knob turned followed by a creak. We straightened our backs and lifted our heads. Mother Superior—dark blue habit, austere and stark—stood framed in the doorway. “What is it, girls?” The corners of her mouth drooped.


I was taken aback that not only was her veil lopsided, but strands of black hair had escaped over her brow. Dark circles rimmed her red eyes—a far cry from the headmistress persona we were used to. 


“Sister Yvette told us to see you at 8 o’clock,” I said.


“When did she talk to you?”


“Last night,”


“Hmm…are you sure it was Sister Yvette?”


“Yes, we’re sure,” Pushpa said.


A vein throbbed in Mother Superior’s temple close to the scarf. “Whatever she asked you to do, I’m sure it can wait. I don’t have time to deal with this right now, so run along, my dears.” Her voice quivered.


I couldn’t believe my ears. No immediate repercussion for breaking the rules. We beat a hasty retreat before she changed her mind. Our classroom never looked so welcoming.


******************************

Mrs. Lobo, our English teacher, perched on her stool and looked grave while she spoke in hushed tones. A tear hung precariously from the corner of an eye. Daisy, the class clown sniffed and wiped her cheeks. Meena cried unabashedly. No one smiled.


“You’re late for class,” Mrs. Lobo said.


“Sorry, Miss. Sister Yvette sent us to see Mother Superior,” I said.


“Don’t be smart, young lady. Sister Yvette died last night.”


The End